


5 times wilson passed out alone...

by Stabbsworth



Category: Don't Starve (Video Game)
Genre: 5+1 Things, Character Death, Fever, Fever Dreams, Gen, Hypothermia
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-09
Updated: 2019-08-10
Packaged: 2020-08-13 08:42:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 894
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20171404
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Stabbsworth/pseuds/Stabbsworth
Summary: ...and the one time he passed out with friends.AKA: Oh, you know.





	1. now that's just cold.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> prompt was hypothermia. somewhere around 500-700 words, i forget.

He'd been trudging through the snow-covered fields for an hour. Maybe two at most.

His supplies were drawing rather thin, and he was struggling to keep the fire lit at night. The darkness terrified him, frankly, and he'd rather it keeps its hands to itself.

Wilson looked at his thermal stone for a moment, wincing at the sickly, greyish-yellow colour. There wasn't much heat left in the thing, and he could already feel his teeth chattering with how hard he was shivering.

He ran a hand through wild, tangled hair, muttering softly to himself.

There wasn't much else he could do, really. He'd run out of sticks last night, trying to keep the fire going and tossing more on the fire in panic when the malformed notes of what sounded like a broken music box sounded off within the darkness of the night.

His breath came out as misty puffs of air, and he stopped walking.

Where was he supposed to be going again?

He fiddled with his pockets, bringing his map out.

His hands shook, making actually reading the damn thing all but impossible. He gave up after a moment or so, murmuring something under his breath as he sat down under the nearest tree he could find within the snow-covered fields.

Everything just had to be so bloody cold.

Doing basic tasks without minor pain had been all but impossible. He'd come close to having frostbite in his fingers more times than he could be bothered to count. He had a constant, gnawing hunger within him.

That was just the start of the very, very long list of grievances that he'd managed to accrue in his mind from this place.

There had to be at least over one hundred entries in that particular list, and most of them had something to do with the Winter season.

The bitter cold, the snow covering paths that made traversing the normal routes just a little bit faster, the lack of warmth unless he was at a campfire, the longer nights, the hands that played broken notes from a broken music box and tried to snatch his fire, the shadow monsters skittering about in the edges of his vision…

The endless headache.

The haze settling over his thoughts as his mind clouded.

His head hurt, and he curled into a ball, all but flopping onto his side. There was the feeling of pounding behind his eyes, the endless, droning static that used to comfort him and remind him that he wasn't suffering from constant tinnitus just yet replaced by incessant whispering, the shake in his hands that might not be entirely from the Winter's cold grip.

There was the increased paranoia, the warping in his vision, the slight loss of balance, the feeling of never being able to get enough sleep, the episodes where he'd forget what he was supposed to be doing…

Bollocks. All of it was bollocks.

He curled up tighter, to shut out the world, shut out the endless expanse of white beneath him and around him and above him, shut out the constant whispers in his ears.

His breathing was slowing. He knew he was going to die by hypothermia. There was no fighting the cold, not when it's seeped so far into his skin and muscles and veins and bones and everywhere else.

The shivering of his body stopped. The world faded slowly, and he shut his eyes, welcoming it. It was an escape, in a way, an escape from the cold, from the whispers, from the darkness slowly approaching in the long nights.

There wasn't a backup plan. Not this time.


	2. a tad feverish

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> stabbsworth likes sickfics a bit too much. wilson is a tad out of it.
> 
> wordcount: bordering on 300.

Everything ached.

Between the throes of delirium and hushed fever dreams that felt like hell and left him utterly confused between each one, trying to puzzle things out before the dreams faded out of his memory, he'd gotten used to the feeling of the full-body ache.

Rather frustrating. He couldn't get anything done when he was feeling this bad.

Hands shook too much for weaving, brainstorming a way to get out of here was impossible with how… uncooperative and messy his thoughts were and he couldn't think straight, let alone manage to walk.

He rolled onto his side, blearily opening an eye, and, through the opening of the tent flap, he could see that rain was being hammered down outside.

A bit of amusement came to him in how his tent could possibly still be standing. Perhaps he was just that good at making tents.

The tent provided shelter, and was much less paranoia-inducing than sleeping on a roll, out in the elements where the monster in the darkness lurked and where hounds would come every week.

Sure, sleeping on a straw roll with an itchy blanket that was weaved from grass a few days ago wasn't much better, but he had to admit, it was comfier.

He settled a little more, still watching the rain.

The sound of the rain falling against the ground was soothing enough.

.o0O0o.

Wilson wakes up, later in the day than his usual, and stumbles out of his tent, still groggy, still aching, but not as out of it as before.

The fever might have broken some time ago, but now it's back to work. As much as his body will allow, anyways.

The first order of business was to find some honey.


End file.
